Hello Sweetie
by frankenfeels
Summary: Sherlock Holmes receives a visit from a mysterious "stranger". One-shot and set a few days after 'The Great Game'. Well, it WAS a one-shot, but after some persuasion, I've decided to sally forth!
1. Chapter 1

**"Hello Sweetie" is how River Song always greets the Doctor. I imagine the Doctor (in his head) snaps his fingers and mutters out, frustrated, "_River!" _every time she pops up. That's where I got the title from (since, supposedly, the Doctor eventually marries River Song in the future and she may or may not kill him later).**

**This is one-off, set a few days after the events of 'The Great Game' (assuming that Sherlock _did _shot the explosives and everything went BOOM) while Sherlock is recuperating at the hospital. Oh, well, it may or may not be a one-shot, depending on whether the response is positive and people want me to continue. And if I feel like it.**

**Listening to: BLK JKS, The Jacksons, Pink Floyd, Maria Callas, Helter Skelter, Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert, and Matt Smith.**

**UPDATE!: I've edited this. It's got some new dialogue and it's more descriptive. _I _like it more than the original. I hope that whoever is reading this is unlike me (who _never _reviews) and reviews it. But, if not, I hope you at least favourite it or whatever.**

**No pressure though! (Also, if you _happen _to review, tell me if it _is _and _was _right to continue (the second chapter will be up shortly so you can bitch and/or praise your opinion very soon)).**

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He heard his room's door open and then silently close. Then he heard five clicks of heels on the tile to his bed. '_Woman, about five foot three, hundred and ten pounds, wearing two inch heels.'_ The clicking stopped beside his bed as, whomever it was, hesitated. '_Chanel No. 5_.' The woman, he assumed, opened something; its metal _snap _the only noise in the quiet room, besides the beeping of the machines hooked up to him and the dripping of his morphine. '_A clutch. Whoever this is...she's wealthy_.'

"Sherlock", a soft, smooth voice purred at him as she placed her arm on the bed to get a closer look at him. She paused, but didn't except him to reply and, so, she continued, "Your brother told me that if I visited you in the hospital I could leave." The woman cleared her throat and then continued in a stronger tone, "And since I've been wanting to get the _hell _out of London for the last six months, I thought I'd get this over with as soon as possible—and the fact that you're still unconscious from surgery is just the cherry on top."

_'I can't quite place her accent...with some words she sounds American (a mixture of New Jersey, Texan, and Eastern Californian), but, she casually pronounces other words with a Southern English accent, so, I can assume, she's been a nomad since birth.'_

"I suppose I should say something about how glad I am that you survived that explosion, but I'm not going to 'cause that's lying", the woman said lightly and nonchalantly. She paused, leaned away from him, and then snapped at him, harshly, "Sherlock, I know you're awake...open your damn eyes." Sherlock snapped his eyes open, temporarily blinded by the hospital's fluorescent lights, and, after his eyes quickly adjusted to the light, he saw a woman intensely staring at him with wide-set brown eyes.

"Who are you?" he muttered to her, the morphine doing nothing to affect his intense stare at her.

The woman pretended to be offended, an upset look flashing across her face, "I'm hurt that you would ask that. And…a bit disappointed as well", she cocked her eyebrow at him and bit her bottom lip to contain a giggle, but failed as a mocking chuckle escaped her lips, "I'll give you a hint, Sherlock, as you clearly don't know"—she snapped a hair tie from her wrist and tied her mud-coloured hair into a ponytail—"which I'll just chalk up to the massive injuries you've sustained and the morphine coursing through your body right now." She breathed out and something changed in her eyes; they went from determined and sharp to quiet and timid, "Sh... Sherlock...coffee?" she stammered out in a Northamptonshire accent.

Her black eyeliner, pink lip-gloss, curly neck length hair, and the dark sunflower printed knee length dress were stripped off, and a baggy white lab coat and cheap red lipstick was placed on her. Her face quickly formed in Sherlock's mind, "Molly", his voice very flat, very sure, and firm.

"Bingo", she laughed derisively as she pulled her hair back down and started combing her hair with her fingers. "But, the name's Irene Adler, by the way", she told him impishly as she rubbed her hands together quickly then smirked at him.

"Why did you tell me your name was Molly Hooper then?"

She chuckled lightly and gestured to herself, "I never told you my name was Molly Hooper. You saw it on my badge and _assumed _that it was", she shrugged and pushed up the sleeves of her brown army style short jacket, "I just never bothered to correct you."

"Why? Why did you do this?" Sherlock's brows intertwined in confusion, his voice still flat.

She avoided Sherlock's gaze and replied angrily; rage seeping through her voice, "I owed your stupid brother a stupid favour", but when she caught Sherlock's eye, mischievousness and playfulness flickered in her eyes, a small, restrained smirk appeared on her face, and she continued leisurely and composedly, "Besides, I heard about you. And perhaps one day we can have a proper"—she leaned her head in to inspect Sherlock, who was examining her as well, closely and cautiously—"chat." She still had that same cool smirk plastered on her face as her eyes trailed from his scarred forehead down to the bridge of his nose and finally focused on the tip of his chiseled nose.

_'As though nature concealed a trap, she has from the first a face of innocence. Her hair is brown and lovely; wide-set brown eyes with upper lids that drooped makes her look mysteriously sleepy. Her nose is delicate and thin, and her cheekbones high and wide, sweeping down to a small chin so that her face is heart-shaped. Her mouth is well shaped and well lipped but abnormally small—what used to be called a rosebud. Her ears are very little, without lobes, and they press so close to her head that even with her hair combed up they make no silhouette. They are thin flaps sealed against her head.'*_

"Well", she started breathlessly after almost a minute of silence and studying; her darkening eyes flickered to his. She was less than four inches away from his face when she softly murmured to him in a flirtatious tone, "What do you think?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He just kept examining her like she was a case, a puzzle to be solved. Sherlock would later blame his failure to reply with a quick and witty observation from his injuries and the fact that he just got blown up the previous day.

After ten seconds had gone by, she calmly sighed out in displeasure and stood up. She swiftly flickered her eyes to her watch, and her face flashed with alarm, "Oh, I gotta go", she suddenly exclaimed as she lightly slapped her forehead. She grabbed her clutch and walked to the door as Sherlock followed her with his eyes, "For Dick Darlington awaits!" and placed her hand on the cool metal handle.

"Wait!" Sherlock dully shouted as she unhurriedly turned the doorknob.

She turned back to him, leaning her back against the white, wooden door, a frown on her face, "Yes?"

"What"—Sherlock tried to speak, but his lips were so dry that he had to stop. '_Damn morphine_.' He licked his lips and tried again, "What was true? Was there anything true about you and Molly Hooper?"

A playful smile slowly encompassed her face, "Nothing"; she said with a bored tone, "nothing was true. A Molly Hooper doesn't even exist—well a _Doctor _Molly Hooper doesn't exist, but I do have a doctorate in forensic pathology", she paused and then quickly added, in a preoccupied voice and nodding, "Oh, and I do like cats. I really do." She smiled at him again, opened the door and slipped out, but before the door closed she slipped her head back in, "And since I didn't get to see John, tell him that Irene Adler wishes him a speedy and excellent recovery", she said to Sherlock in a good-natured voice, but then she frowned and told Sherlock in a gloomy voice, "And Molly Hooper wishes _you_ the same." Her head disappeared and the door gradually closed.

Sherlock sighed in contempt, leaned back in his bed, and folded his hands on his flat, bruised, and bandaged stomach. He sighed again and then muttered to himself, "Damn woman." He glanced over to the clock and spotted an open card laying on his bedside table. He struggled to reach the card and it took him a minute or two to finally snatch the card. It read, in red cursive:

_Next time, you'd better be more fully prepared._

_The Bruce-Partington Plans? Please—what kind of leverage is that? I expected more of you._

_P. S. Sorry for the great effort it took for you to reach this card...but you had to work for it. My advice isn't free._

_'Obviously a woman wrote this'. _Sherlock flipped the card over and started to study it for any clues, "But who _really _wrote this?" Sherlock muttered to himself, "Irene or...Moriarty?"

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**I'm surprised there's not more "Molly is Irene!" fan fiction out there. I mean Louise Brealey is _really _pretty and it would be AWESOME if she turned out to be Irene. Or Molly could turn out to be a 'Cathy Ames/Kate from _East of Eden_' type character, where she's not a physical monster but a mental or psychic monster. That, again, would be pretty kickass, especially after Cathy is described physically (which reminds me _of _Molly).**

***This is actually from _East of Eden_, but, of course, I just took out Cathy's name and placed it in present tense, not past. _Steinbeck, John. "Chapter 8." In East of Eden . New York: Penguin Books, 1992. 73._**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay! As promised! The second chapter! Let the bitching and/or praising begin! I actually quite like this story! (I'll stop using exclamation points now). Granted, I don't have a real story or plot, but I'll just roll with it until I stumble over one. 'Member...I warned ya.**

**As Master Yoda once said, "Be mindful of the future" to which Qui-Gon Jinn added, "But, not at the expense of the moment" (Okay, I'll stop using Star Wars references as well). But, I will say, I'll try to stay away from a Mexican standoff at the end between Irene, Sherlock (slash John slash Lestrade slash Scotland Yard slash Mycroft slash the CIA slash Torchwood), and Moriarty. And I'll try to stay away from Irene becoming Sherlock's assistant until John recovers. I much prefer Irene popping up once in a while and kicking Sherlock's arse (figuratively, of course).**

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Three days later, Sherlock was released from the hospital; however, John was kept in the ICU, under close watch. He was injured badly—'_real, real bad'_—and it was not known exactly when Dr. John Watson was going to be let out _and _how long he'd have to rest before he could rejoin Sherlock in his adventures. Instead of going straight home to rest, like his physician _insisted_ that he do, Sherlock took a cab to a small restaurant in Northern London. The restaurant was small, low-key, and dark; the only light illuminating the place was candles on the tables and small fluorescent lights lining the walls every few feet; only a few people were there. '_Of course, he'd be here_.'

Sherlock casually strolled through the restaurant until he got to table number three, "Irene Adler…who is she?" Sherlock bluntly asked a pale, thin man in a crisp, expensive, gray, three piece Oxford suit, who was chewing and slicing through a piece of steak.

The man swallowed the food in his mouth then muttered calmly, "Sherlock…Mummy _did _teach us manners", and he continued to slice through his steak, not bothering to look at Sherlock, "Try to show them once in a while."

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and repeated his question, although in a harsher tone this time. The man studied Sherlock as he chewed before pointing to the chair across from him with his fork and knife, "Sit down, Sherlock." Sherlock cocked his eyebrow and gave a face in defiance, but sat down anyway. "Irene Adler", the man groaned out her name as a manila folder appeared behind him. He grabbed the folder and then handed it to Sherlock, who started to flip through its paper content, "Irene Adler is one of the most elusive people I've ever met. She barely leaves any traces behind."

Sherlock pulled out and skimmed through a New Jersey birth certificate,

_Irene Louise Adler. Born on March 22—DELETED BY THE ORDER OF THE GOVERNOR…_

_Father: William Conan Adler_

_Mother: DELETED BY THE ORDER OF THE GOVERNOR…_

"If you Google the name 'Irene Adler'", the man calmly continued as he carefully pushed his peas away from his steak, "you'll get nothing. Yeah, there'll be _some _pictures of her, but they're either out of focus or she's in the background. And, _occasionally_, there'll be mention of a woman with 'mud-coloured hair' and a 'huskily soft' voice that 'moved quietly and talked little, but, when she entered the room, everyone turned toward her' with something 'foreign' in her eye that made people want to 'inspect' her", the man heaved a sigh and went back to eating his steak. A ten-second silence occurred between them before the man said, with discomfort creeping in his voice, "There are only two things certain about her, Sherlock", and his eyes flickered up to Sherlock, who was still examining each paper carefully, "One…she's a two-time divorcee and two"…Sherlock peeked at his brother, who had paused and let his knife go limp, "she's dangerous."

Sherlock halted briefly before continuing to flip through the papers, "She mentioned she owed you a favour? Why did she owe you a favour?"

"I'm not at liberty to say", he wiped his mouth with a napkin and delicately placed it on his plate, "I have to go, Sherlock." He stood up, smiled at Sherlock, and then turned to leave.

"Ah, yes", Sherlock said, closing the folder, standing up, and then tucking the folder under his arm. "Oh, and Mycroft"—he glanced back at Sherlock—"Mummy also _did _teach us to eat our vegetables."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a cold, fake smile, "Goodbye Sherlock. Try to take care of yourself until John gets out of the hospital. He'd want you to do that."

"Yeah…yeah", Sherlock muttered, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.

"Take care Sherlock."

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When Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street later that day—about three hours after talking to Mycroft—he found Irene Adler sitting at his table, rapidly stirring a smoky, blue mixture in a beaker. Sherlock cocked his head in interest at her, before she glanced at him, "I heard you were looking for information about me."

"Yes", Sherlock took off his scarf, "I was", and he shrugged off his trench coat and threw it on a chair.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?"

"I've got everything I need", Sherlock lightly patted his left jacket pocket.

She stopped stirring the mixture, leaned back in the wooden chair, and stared at him, "You think you've figured me out, eh?" She started to drum her deep red nail polish painted nails on the table.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to her drumming fingers, "Stop doing that", he told her sternly.

She gave a look of rebelliousness at Sherlock and drummed her fingers faster for a second before she stopped and went back to stirring the mixture rapidly, leaning in to examine, "Y'know, if you lay the sixty-two thousand miles of blood vessels from the human body end to end, they would circle the Earth two and a half times", she said casually, still stirring the concoction.

Sherlock took a step towards her, "That card you left me at the hospital…who was it from?"

She glanced at Sherlock again and saw the serious, stern look on his face. She stopped stirring and placed her chin on her right hand, "Boy, I know you're supposed to be abrupt, but that's a bit stark."

"I'm always stark with liars", he said curtly.

She suddenly stood up; her cheeks flushed with anger, pointed at him, and told him in a firm, livid voice, and "Sir, I can stand being called many things, but a liar is not one of them", she let out an annoyed sigh, "Besides, I don't lie", Sherlock rolled his eyes in disbelief, "I just don't tell the truth. If you had asked me what my name was when we first met, I would have told you it was Irene Adler not Molly Hooper", she said lightly.

"Stop avoiding the question, Irene", Sherlock sighed out in irritation.

She took a step to him, crossed her arms behind her back, and looked up at him, "The card was from me", she snapped at him, "I thought you'd _appreciate _the gesture", she strolled back to the table and muttered to herself, "But, apparently not." When she received no reply from him, she closed her eyes and sighed in guilt and frustration before she spun around and leaned against the table, "So", she started in a gentle voice, "how's John?" She then added, "I always liked him."

"John?" Sherlock's brows furrowed in thought, "John is doing well."

"Is there any possible way I could tempt him away from you?" she asked him, playfully. But, Sherlock didn't get the joke and only responded with a dark glance to the floor. Irene frowned and told Sherlock, in a strained voice, "Jesus, Sherlock. I was kidding…it was joke." Sherlock looked at Irene and rolled his eyes. "Sherlock", Irene said flatly and paused, "John's going to be alright. The staff at St. Bart's are great. Yeah"—she shrugged—"they may be oblivious, but they know _exactly _what they're doing. Besides…stealing John away from you would be the dumbest, stupidest move anybody has or will ever do."

Sherlock quickly studied Irene's face for any fabrication, but only saw genuine concern and honesty; he then looked over to the sink and saw an experiment of his gone, "Where did my experiment go?" He flickered his eyes to Irene, "What did you do to my experiment?

"Oh", Irene took a step towards Sherlock again, her eyebrows raised, "the bacterial-bleach test?" she then said flatly, "I threw it out", then said with enthusiasm, "You gotta put a bit of water in it", she took another step towards him, looked up at him, and smirked at him, "y'know." Their bodies were only two inches apart.

Sherlock smirked back at Irene, "May I ask you a question, Ms. Adler?" he asked with a polite voice.

Irene gave him a slightly surprised look on her face, but still had the smirk on her face, "Mr. Holmes, are you being civil? And you're calling me by my last name! Whatever it is, it must be important."

Sherlock gave her light chuckle and then leaned forward to mutter in her ear, "Why are you _really _here?" He leaned back and smiled a fake, practiced smile at her, a false twinkle in his eyes.

"I'm not here to bug the place, if that's what you're getting at", Irene took a step to the counter, picked up a metal bowl, and started to study the counters, "that's Mycroft's job", she said as she gently placed the metal bowl over an old pair of wool, dusty gloves, that was on the counter next to the refrigerator.

"And, if you were, who would you be bugging the place for? Moriarty perhaps?" he raised his eyebrow.

"You said it, not I", Irene smiled, cocked her head at him, and walked back towards him. "You should definitely get a new table, Sherlock", Irene's finger slowly traced the scratch left from an Indian Scimitar from an assassin Sherlock had fought almost a month ago over a lost diamond, "I don't know if this table could take another hit from a _Talwar_", she spun around to look at Sherlock. "Besides, he wouldn't want an unfair advantage", she murmured lowly.

Sherlock closed the gap between them—their bodies less than an inch apart—looked down at her, and asked her, in a husky, low voice, "_He_ wouldn't?"

The air was electric between them as Sherlock stared at her, who was looking at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock nonchalantly and gently grabbed the fingers of Irene's left hand. A minute had gone by before Irene grinned at him and told him, slowly, sheepishly, but curtly, "I should go", she scooted her way out of Sherlock's reach to the door and grabbed her tan trench coat from the coat hanger, as Sherlock followed her with his eyes, yet again. "I'll see you around, Sherlock", she cheerfully yelled and waved at him as she scampered down the stairs and out the door.

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**A bit of Molly Hooper at the end, eh? Please...you try to resist Sherlock's sexy voice and stay calm. But, clearly, it was pay back for what Irene did to Sherlock a few days earlier.**

**Anyhoo, I'd love it if you review! Once again, no pressure! But, hey, to sweeten the deal, I'll promise (well, try) to send anybody that reviews a sneak peek! (Although, frankly, it may take a while for this said "sneak peek" as I have _absolutely no _idea what do to next.)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Third part! Yippee! I'm not happy with the ending though :/ I didn't know _exactly _how to end it so I just said 'fuck it' (which, incidentally, is my life's motto as well) and slapped on a show's line.**

**But...happy fun time news! I finally have a plot! A Point B to my Point A! I thought of it during my government class today! No longer am I building a "Bridge to Nowhere" (but, seeing that there's _currently_ nothing connecting the town of Ketchikan, Alaska with Gravina Island, besides a ferry, I don't think that's anything to brag about). Anyhoo! If I could, I would jump up and click my heels together (not that I can't, but it's cooler if there's an actual _clicking _sound, and not the dull thud of Chucks.) I hope it doesn't suck!**

**By the way, reviews are great! Reviews keep...reviews keep...Aha! Reviews keeps me drinking booze! Wha—?**

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If she wasn't at the clinic, Sarah would be at John's side, ever since he was wheeled out of surgery two days ago, her cheeks and eyes sunken in with weariness and sorrow and her hand tenderly caressing John's. Harry had been in a few times, with a flask hidden away in her purse and a few pieces of gum in her mouth, to hurriedly check on her younger brother, to wish him luck, and to assure him that she hadn't been drinking. Sherlock had been at the hospital with John ever since he himself was released a few days ago, silently and stoically glaring, in the corner, at Sarah, Harry, Lestrade, the doctors, the nurses, and the orderlies with icy, vacant, but haughty eyes. John, on the other hand, spent most of his time sleeping, figuring that he wouldn't be getting that much sleep once he was released from the hospital; he would be awake for an hour, at the most, before he would let his eyelids droop and drift off to sleep.

It wasn't until a week after the standoff, on Friday at six at night that Irene Adler sauntered into John's hospital room wearing four inch heels—which, besides the beeping of the machines, broke the silence between a sleeping John and a still Sherlock, Sarah, and Lestrade—smiling optimistically and carrying a crystal vase of a dozen red roses.

"Hello all", Irene exclaimed brightly as she carefully placed the roses on a table across from John. "And how is John on this _lovely_ Friday evening?"

Lestrade and Sarah both inanely gawked at Irene before Sarah stuttered out, "He's doing all right, miss, thank you for asking", her eyes flashed to the roses, "and thank you _very much _for the flowers."

Irene peeked at a sleeping Sherlock—his forehead on his knees, his coat and scarf still on, his arms hugging his legs, and his face hidden away from the world by his dark curls—in a wooden chair before telling Sarah and giving her a warm smile, "There's no need to thank me at all; John _is _a friend of mine and what are friends for?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in doubt at Irene, "And you are?" he asked Irene in a tired and blunt voice.

Irene looked at Lestrade with annoyance in her eyes and then said in a firm tone, "Irene. Irene Adler's the name", she leaned against the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry"—Sarah started brokenly—"I don't think he's ever mentioned you."

Irene smiled crookedly at Sarah and showed her sharp white little teeth, "I suppose he never got the chance to with him solving cases with Sherlock all the time", she glanced over at Lestrade, who had his hands clasped behind his back and a dark thoughtful expression on his face. Irene flickered her attentions back to Sarah, "But, Sarah dear, he's mentioned you lots of times", she paused and then continued, "and, once he wakes up, I suggest you ask why he's never mentioned me and how you didn't know that he had more friends and isn't it a pity that it takes a tragedy like this to bring everyone together?"

Sarah stared at Irene before she dabbed a tissue to her nose, turned her stare back at John, and said in a meek, weak voice, "Yes", she dabbled her nose again, and "I shall ask him that once he wakes up." She placed her head down on the bed in exhaustion.

Irene studied John intently before peeking at Sherlock again, out of the corner of her eye, "Lestrade, _darling_", she softly purred to him as she gave him a coy, shy smile and slowly took a step to him, "Would you mind taking Sarah to get me some tea please?" Lestrade gave her a blank look, his mouth slightly open in mystification and uncertainty. "All I've had today is vodka and olives", she added in a young, flirtatious whine, took another step closer to him, looked up to him and gave him a merry, crooked smile, "Please?"

Lestrade continued to stare at her mouth for a moment before saying in a hoarse whisper, "Yes that sounds like a good idea", he flickered his eyes to hers, "I shall do that", he brushed by Irene and gently took Sarah by her arm, explaining to her that she needed some coffee to raise her spirits and, hell, John might even be awake when they come back. Irene watched Lestrade and Sarah stumble out of the room before setting her gaze on a sleeping John. Irene gave out a poignant sigh before sitting down in the seat Sarah had only vacated moments before.

Not even a minute had gone by before John's eyes snapped open and lazily turned his head to Irene, "Hello Irene", he gave her a friendly smile.

"John", Irene muttered darkly, but still smiled at him, "how long have you been awake?"

John halfheartedly shrugged and said nonchalantly, "For an hour now", she frowned at him and raised her eyebrow at him in disappointment before he blurted out hastily, "I've just been babied _so much _by everybody lately and I needed some time _alone _without someone asking me if I'm alright"; he glanced at Irene, guilt in his eyes like he was a little boy being caught with his hand in the cookie jar by his mother, "Does that make me a bad person?"

Irene gave him her warmest smile, her eyes bright with delight, and told him, slowly, "John, you've been in an explosion and have just been through two surgeries in the past week", she gently laid her hand on John's bandaged arm, "you can act _however _you want."

John smiled in relief and then said to her, "I wanna thank you for the roses", he nudged his head towards the flowers, "my sister Harry brought me some balloons, but Sherlock popped them all."

Irene rolled her eyes and said matter-of-factly, "'When a man barely has any sleep, he isn't sentimental'."

"How so?" John's brows knitted together in interest and confusion.

"Well, 'he sees things as they really are; that is to say, he sees them in the garish light of justice—hideous, witless justice'", and then shook her head slightly, "but I have to make a confession", she stood up and walked towards the roses as John's eyes followed her, and "I didn't buy you these roses", she pointed to the roses.

John's face took a look of confusion, "Who are they from then?"

Irene reached into the roses, withdrew a white stock card, cleared her throat, and then read, "_My dearest little girl…ever since I heard you were back in town, my heart has been fluttering and my mind has been racing. I must see you before you leave my life again_…blah, blah, blah…_These six dozen roses can't express how much I love and need you. Until tonight at seven, José da Silva Pereira_", she said disdainfully, before tearing up the card into the trash. "Obviously written by the florist", she muttered and turned her back to John.

"What happened to the other forty-eight roses?"

Irene spun back around; her eyebrows raised, and then mumbled, bashfully, "Forty-eight patients now have a rose."

John stared at her, surprise and elation in his eyes, before telling her, rather bluntly, but in a playful voice, "You're amazing."

She walked back and sat down, "I would be lying if I said that this isn't the first time I've heard _that_ today." A silence occurred for less than a minute before she lightly nudged John's shoulder, "'Ey"—John looked over at Irene—"how long do you suppose Sherlock's been awake?" she whispered to him.

John paused to think and then whispered back, "Probably about as long as I have…maybe even longer."

An idea passed through Irene's mind, "So, as I was saying John", she exclaimed loudly and stiffly, "Sherlock has some of the _biggest _nostrils I've ever seen when he gets angry", she grinned at John, lightheartedness and mischievousness in her eyes; "I swear you could stick _coins _up them."

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was still motionless, and said lightly, "Yes, you could", he thought of something and bit his bottom lip to contain a chuckle, "And then you could slap him on the back and all of the coins would fall out of his nose like a slot machine", Irene and John laughed riotously.

"And—and sometimes he loses his chin when he works", Irene spat out, gasping for breath, "Have you ever noticed that?"

"Yeah!" John sputtered out, nodding enthusiastically.

"And his hair! His hair!"

Suddenly, Sherlock gracefully and swiftly stood up, "Okay, that's enough", he said hardheartedly as he flickered his eyes between John and Irene.

"Sherlock, we're just teasing you", John chuckled out, looking at Sherlock.

"Yeah, just a bit of fun", Irene said, lightheartedly.

"Yeah, and at my expense", Sherlock said sternly as John frowned, and however, Irene kept a mischievous smile on her face.

"Uh-oh", Irene started as she nudged John with her elbow, "it looks like we made Mr. Grumpy mad", she said to John in an exaggerated, low voice.

Sherlock said nothing, but stared at her intensely, annoyance and resentment blazing in his piercing blue eyes.

"Alright, alright", Irene said quickly when she noticed the look in his eyes, then heaved a sigh in displeasure, "We're sorry that we were laughing and enjoying ourselves"; she then muttered bleakly and bluntly, "I forgot you found fun _insufferable_."

"Hey", Sherlock snapped at Irene and said grotesquely with a gross face, "I _lurve _fun."

Irene's smile immediately dropped and she said to Sherlock in a deadpan voice, "That, sir, is the _scariest _thing I've _ever_ heard", she turned to John and told him, "And I've heard the roar of a charging Grizzly bear and the cocking of a shotgun in my face."

John gave Irene a dull, blank look before she mumbled out, "Okay, well, maybe I shouldn't have told 'im he had bad breath and all, but still", she sighed and then asked John in a jolly voice, completely ignoring Sherlock, "So, when are you gettin' out?"

John thought for a moment before replying in an uncertain voice, "Next week, sometime."

"Oh, and I bet it's back to work straight away, eh?"

John looked over at Sherlock—who was keenly absorbed in the functions and workings of John's machines—a small smile on his face, "Definitely, most definitely."

"Of course." A silence occurred before Irene said to John, lightly and calmly, "Sarah's nice."

"Yes, yes she is", John looked down at his hands placed on his stomach, "I think—I think I love her", he mumbled softly and carefully so Sherlock wouldn't hear him.

Irene's eyebrows rose in surprise, "Oh, really? Well, I hope _you_ reallydo love her and it's not this 'carpe diem' character that does. You wouldn't want to get bored with her like I did with _my _husbands", and then she hastily added, "Even if you _do _get bored of her and no longer love her, you can always love again."

"Doesn't that sound a bit shallow?" John asked timidly.

"'The people who love only once in their lives are really the shallow people'*, John dear", she said animatedly, shifting in the chair.

"You have a bad habit of quoting", Sherlock abruptly muttered bleakly, clearly having lost interest in the machines, and flickered his eyes to Irene's momentarily before looking towards the door.

"Well, 'things somehow seem more real and vivid when one can apply somebody else's ready-made phrase about them'*", Irene said, a small smile on her face, "and that, itself, is a quote as well. 'Quote, unquote, quote'*."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Irene as Sarah and Lestrade entered the room with a tray of coffee and tea, their face bright with joy and amusement. "Hi", Lestrade said to everybody, with pleasure. "We"—he motioned to himself and Sarah—"brought some coffee for everybody", he saw that John was conscious, "And hey John! You're awake."

"Ah", Irene gasped, standing up and grabbing her tea from the tray, "thanks dear."

"Sherlock", Lestrade handed him his coffee and Sherlock grumbled a thanks in return, "Sorry we didn't get you any, John", Lestrade said, embarrassed.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Lestrade", Irene suddenly said as she took the cap off her tea and handed it to John, "'cause John can have mine."

"Oh, wow, well thanks", John said as he lightly swirled the tea around.

A silence enclosed the room as everybody quietly sipped their hot drink before Irene exclaimed, "I should really get going and leave you two lovebirds"—she gazed at John and Sarah—"alone." She smiled, slightly nodded and curtseyed, and exited the room. Sherlock, less than a millisecond after she left, hurriedly exited the room as well and when he spotted Irene walking down the empty, long hall he called out to her.

"Yes?" she muttered as she undesirably stopped and didn't bother to turn around to see him.

"I know what you're doing…playing spy for Moriarty. It's not going to work", he told her coldly and knowingly as he took a step to her to fill the gap, "And don't lie to me."

Irene turned around very slowly and looked at Sherlock. Her eyes were expressionless and cold, "You have me mistaken, Sherlock, for I don't lie", she said in an impassive tone, "And I've _certainly _never lied to you", she continued in a voice of forced calmness, her complexion becoming pale with anger, "Now, _Sherlock_, stop _bitchin'_ about me outsmarting you, okay?" Rage was steadily seeping through her voice, "'Cause this is what it's all about, isn't it? It's not about whether or not I'm working with Moriarty—which I'm not—it's about your bruised ego. It's **your** fault"—she pointed at him—"if you weren't such a…a…how do I put this delicately?"—she paused to think and then said in a blunt, flat tone, looking Sherlock straightly in his eyes, her gaze not wavering as she continued—"dick, I wouldn't have outsmarted you, okay?" she gave him a jaded sneer, then said when he didn't reply, "Goodbye, Sherlock", she turned and marched away from him down the empty and long hall to the elevators.

Sherlock had his eyes fixed on her face as she spoke to him and then when she stomped away from him in fury, and seemed to be surprised by her words, especially her _choice _of words, and her boldness and courage. The only person who dared to stand up to him like that was John; and he was usually easy to calm down. _Something new._

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***: Camus, Albert, and Stuart Gilbert. _The Plague_. New York: McGraw-Hill Humanities/Social Sciences/Languages, 1965.**

***: Wilde, Oscar, and Camille Cauti. "Chapter IV." In _The picture of Dorian Gray _. New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2003. 51.**

***: Huxley, Aldous. _Crome Yellow, by Aldous Huxley _. London: Chatto and Windus, 1922.**

***: Marx, Groucho. I think it's _Animal Crackers_, although it beats the hell out of me.**

**And John does know that Molly Hooper was Irene Adler all along, but just never got around to telling Sherlock. **

**"Eyeballs in the microwave, fingers in the kettle, heads in the refrigerator...it really adds up Sherlock!"**

** So a big apology to _First Cat in Space _and _LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson _for leading them on and then for _everybody _else for not giving them a sneak peek (honestly, I didn't have a clue what I was going to do for this chapter until my art history class earlier today, which explains Irene's spat to Sherlock (there's stupid people in my class, okay?))**

**'Kay, let me try this again. Reviews equals back ooze. Damn it!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Here it is! Irene and Sherlock _finally _have sex. But, just to let you know, I _glossed _over it. What? Sex scenes make me laugh because of how uncomfortable they make me. Plus, remember who's having sex. **

**Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes.**

**You can't expect _passionate love making_. Just bored induced sex. **

**Sorry, it took me so long :/ I had planned for this chapter to be done by Monday or so, but! But! I finished the story! Well...not exactly. I finished the last chapters, but I still haven't written the next chapter yet. But, I suspect that it won't take long and, once I give the last few chapters the last once over, I'll post them ASAFP! **

**Also, this is the chapter before the beginning of the end. I think it's alright, but not my finest. Okay...reviewing is equal to tobacco chewing! Dang!**

**

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**

_ "I'm bored."_

_-IA_

Sherlock drummed his thumb against the keyboard of his mobile for a second before he replied,

_ "So. What do you want me to do about it?"_

_-SH_

And then he quickly added, with a snide smirk growing on his face,

_ "Furthermore, why should I care?"_

_-SH_

Less than two seconds later, his mobile beeped with her reply,

_ "You could come over and liven the place up."_

_-IA_

And then she quickly added,

_ "And you should care because I might have to make my own fun."_

_-IA_

Sherlock sighed. He was bored as well. Mrs. Hudson had taken his skull and John's gun hadn't been released from evidence yet. John was still in the hospital and Sherlock would have been there as well, but John had _insisted _that Sherlock go back to the flat for a bath and some rest. He sighed again as he laid his head back against the back of the sofa.

He peeked at his black wool trench coat and his dyed blue scarf hanging on the door hanger from behind his mobile. _'Being with someone _could _dull the tediousness of the day'_, his brows knotted in thought, _'that's what people usually do, right?' _Then he peeked at the kitchen, quickly filing through the list of experiments he could now do with an absent John.

_'No, no'_, Sherlock thought as he peeked back at the door hanger. _'It's _much _more fun when he's here, leaping about, his face red with rage, and his cracking voice telling me to stop whatever it is I'm doing…_immediately._'_ He glanced down at his phone. 12:40 PM.

Sherlock sighed again, swiftly got up, grabbed and then slipped into his trench coat and scarf, and silently dashed down the stairs and out the door. He arrived at a brown, sad, cold, immense building—the former Molly Hooper's flat—not even an hour later. He hiked up the stairs to her flat, then knocked on her door—_79A_—out of courtesy, and was instantly responded by a bored, throaty "Door's open".

He leisurely turned the knob and walked into her flat, where huge towers of dusty newspapers were stacked against the brightly painted walls and empty and new bottles of vodka and old electronics were strewn across the flat. He saw Irene lying on top of a grand, black piano staring at the ceiling, wearing a cotton golden yellow bathrobe that was open to reveal just short gray shorts and a white tank top; her right barefoot dangled flaccidly off the piano and a half empty martini hanged precariously from her hand.

"Hello, Sherlock", she said in a jaded, but light voice. She lazily turned her head towards him and held up her martini, "Drink?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he loosened his scarf and slackened off his gloves, "Sure", he said in a careful, suspicious tone. Irene's mouth flickered into a smile for a second before it was reduced back into a tight lip, straight line and she gracefully rolled off the piano, strolled over to a small table where she opened a new bottle of vodka and dusted out a martini glass.

"You can sit down", she calmly said, she then eyed her messy flat and added in a nervous voice, "If you can find the space", she poured some vodka in her glass, "See anything of interest?"

"An excessive number of newspapers—not only that, but an excessive number of _old_ newspapers. Why?" he asked, but didn't allow Irene time to answer. He wanted to answer it himself, "And the numerous empty bottles of vodka have a fine layer of dust, meaning that you have a drinking problem, but most of the bottles have none to very little dust on them indicating that only, recently, has your 'problem' became worse", he said quickly.

She turned around and walked to Sherlock, holding out his drink to him. She shrugged, "Boredom", he took his glass as she told him, lightly, "And you have cocaine...I have vodka."

"Shut up", he told her meanly and curtly, his eyes narrowed at her with cruelty.

Irene threw her head back and let out a playful laugh, "Only an idiot wouldn't be able to see it. The dried-out skin, the tensed-up muscles"—she lightly brushed her fingers on his arm and then swiftly grazed the soft purple bags under her eyes—"the bags under the eyes", she took a sip of her drink and then continued, "It's either cocaine or ecstasy, and seeing as you're not sweating or showing intimacy with anyone, it's cocaine."

Sherlock's face didn't change at all, as a silence arose between the two, but he suspiciously eyed his drink and flickered his eyes to Irene. Irene heaved out an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes as she grabbed Sherlock's drink, took a sip, and then handed it back to him, "If I wanted to kill you Sherlock"—she said coolly as she strolled to an armchair and flopped down in it—"I would have done it _ag__es _ago." Sherlock sat down on the couch and placed his drink to his mouth, but did not sip. Sherlock never drank; it made him sick and it seemed to poison him. "You can continue Sherlock", Irene told him, calmly, as she took a sip of her drink.

He sighed out, "I can figure out the bottles and the electronics, but not the huge stacks of newspapers", he looked at her, his head cocked, and asked her in a flat voice, "Why do you have so many newspapers?"

She smiled at him, but boredom was in her eyes, "Research...purposes of the investigative kind", she said in nervous twang.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at her statement, but his face didn't change. He shifted on the couch, something under the cushion. He dug his hand through the cushions and pulled out a DVD case with the word "_Glee_" on the case.

"Ugh, _Glee_", Irene spat out in disgust when she noticed it. "I hate that show." Sherlock threw it on the coffee table. "Mycroft had to make Molly like everything _I _dislike." They remained in silence for five minutes before Irene gave out a jaded sigh and lazily glanced at Sherlock, "So...want to do it?"

"Do what?" he asked her, sharply, looking at her as she stood up and put her arms in the air to stretch.

"What do you think?" she told him, stridently, bending over to touch her toes.

He cocked his head and gave her a blank look. She let out an aggravated sigh, crossed her arms across her chest, and asked him, in a slow, angry voice, "Do you want to have sex?"

"Oh", he said flatly, finally getting. He supposed he should have gotten it when she started stretching. "Okay", he shrugged.

"Fine", she said unenthusiastically, as she gulped down her drink and strolled off to where Sherlock assumed was her bedroom. He quickly trailed behind her and stood by her disheveled bed as she went into her bathroom, _'Most likely to get a condom'_, he thought as he awkwardly looked around her bedroom.

It took them forty minutes. The sex was, to be frank and modest, was,—well—awkward to say the least, which isn't exactly surprising when you consider the people. When Irene came out of the bathroom with a condom, Sherlock tried to kiss her ("Because that's what you're supposed to do, right?"), but was immediately stopped by Irene ("No, there'll be _none _of that"). After that, they undressed _themselves, _Irene got on her back and spread her legs, and then Sherlock climbed on top of her and started thrusting. Irene made sure she looked like she wasn't enjoying the sex, although she was kind of, she later admitted to herself. The flat was quiet and one would think that nobody was home, except, if one listened carefully, they could hear faint panting coming from the bedroom.

After forty minutes, Sherlock was done and rolled off of her, breathing heavily, while Irene continued staring at the ceiling, like she had been the entire time, a blank look on her face, before she stood up, grabbed a peach silk robe, and slipped into it, walking towards the bathroom.

"Get out", she said frigidly, not bothering to look at Sherlock and not wanting to look at him. She went into the bathroom and slammed the door, hard enough that the pictures in her bedroom shook. Irene started the bath and then leaned against the door, sliding her way to the floor, as she heard Sherlock get dressed and leave. She was silent, deep in thought, and the bath was almost overfilling before she got up and took a bath, using a pumice stone and hot water to wash herself.

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Sherlock returned home an hour later. Granted, he wasn't bored as he was before, but, nevertheless, still pretty bored. He was so bored, in fact, that he started bouncing a tennis ball he had laying around (he was going to blow it up later when John came back, and he did in fact blow it up) and, after ten minutes of bouncing it against the wall, it bounced off and rolled under the table.

"Ugh", Sherlock moaned as he laid back in the armchair, seriously contemplating about yelling for Mrs. Hudson, but remembered the last time he did that for such a "injudicious reason".

_'Oh yeah, that's why she took the skull away'_, he reminded himself. "Meh", he stood up, walked over to the table, and grabbed the ball, but, as he was standing back up, he noticed a paper taped under the table. It took him less than a minute to have the table cleared and flipped over to reveal a newspaper taped to the bottom of the table. "Ah", he said as he hastily peeled the tape off and unfolded the paper, "what does this say?" '_Tape was difficult to peel off; must have been there for about a week or so._' The newspaper page was folded a few times and the title was enclosed by the ring of coffee,

_Bassett Hound wins City Wide Dog Show_

Sherlock frowned as he skimmed through the coffee encircled article, "Blah, blah, blah, blah"; he folded the clipping and was about to throw it on the ground, when he noticed the first letter in the article underlined in red ink. His brows were intertwined in curiosity and intrigue as he unfolded the newspaper again.

An hour and a half-later...and Sherlock had cracked the code. It was a Baconian cipher and it read,

_STRIKE MIDNIGHT APRIL FIFTEENTH NORTH OF WESTMINSTER_

"Yes! Yes!" Sherlock shouted, jumping up and down in joy. "Finally something to do!"

**

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**

**And I really do hate _Glee _and since _I _hate _Glee _then Irene does as well. But, question, why do people always say that Molly watched _Glee_. I never recall her saying that she watched it on her blog, but, somehow, it stuck.**

**Hate _Glee_, but love, love, LOVE _Community_.**

**REMEMBER! If you review, I'll send you a sneak peek, although, make sure your PM thing majig is turned on so I can send it to you. *I'm looking at you mossheart1235***


	5. Chapter 5

**The Beginning of the end!**

**Four more chapters until the end!**

**Remember! I won't refuse reviews! (And I'm waiting a while before I post the next chapter because, although I've written it, I need to _smooth _out the kinks.)**

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It was almost six in the morning when Irene let herself into 221 Baker Street, using the key she found under the welcome mat. She climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street and lightly knocked on the doorframe, while entering, "Hello?" she called out.

"Hello, Irene", a warm, friendly voice came from the kitchen. John walked out of the kitchen, with a limp and using a cane, and smiled at her. "How did you get in?" he asked her in an intrepid manner.

"There's a key under the mat", she rolled her eyes and said in a jaded voice, "How cliché", her voice then turned cordial and merry, "Anyway, I just popped in to say my farewells."

"You're leaving?" John asked, slowly easing his way into his chair.

Irene nodded, "Yeah, finally", and then muttered, "Two weeks after Mycroft told me I could."

"Why didn't you leave two weeks ago then?"

Irene let out an irritated sigh, "Mycroft thought he was being _funny_ by delaying and dawdling my paperwork so I couldn't _officially _leave until yesterday. I thought about leaving a 'present' for him, but then I remembered that was one of the reasons why I ended up here in the first place."

"Oh", John said, curtly, then flickered his eyes around the flat, "Well, Sherlock isn't here at the moment"—

"I didn't particularly want to see Sherlock, at any rate", she said hastily, but then glanced around the flat for him; "By the way...where _is _Sherlock?"

"He's out stopping a major burglary", John said, smugly, "He just texted me to say that it was a "success" and that he would be home in a few hours."

Irene smiled at that, but then frowned, "Why aren't you with him?"

John let out a sigh in ennui and melancholy, "I was just released from the hospital _yesterday,_ and Sherlock wouldn't allow me to come with him."

Irene raised her eyebrow in enjoyment and surprise, "Wowie, that's a strange turn of the roles."

John lowly grumbled a response, but Irene could barely hear it and only caught the words "Sherlock" and "pears". He looked up at her, shock and embarrassment on his face, "Where are my manners? Would you like some tea?"

"Oh, no thank you", Irene moved towards the kitchen, "But, please, let me get it for you."

"Well, thanks."

"'If only one could always be so kind with so little expense or trouble'", Irene said lightly, turning the faucet on and filling the kettle with water.

"That's nice", John sighed out as he grabbed a pen and a notepad; "I like that", he scribbled the quote down, "I'm writing that one down."

"Why are you writing that down?" Irene asked him, coming out of the kitchen.

"When I was in the hospital, I made a resolution to start reading more books", John explained as he placed the notepad down. "Every time you spout out quotes, I found it to be quite humiliating as I never know the author or the context."

"Books", Irene sighed out in apathy and rolled her eyes, "'One reads so many, and one sees so few people and so little of the world. Great thick books about the universe and the mind and ethics'", Irene glanced at John and exclaimed at him, "'you've no idea how many there are! I must have read twenty or thirty tons of them in the last five years. Twenty tons of ratiocination. Weighted with that, one's pushed out into the world. Still"—Irene raised her eyebrow in awareness—"what's with this sudden, intense, fervent, and abnormal need to expand your mind? When one has a near-death experience, one usually wants to go out and _see the world._"

John shrugged and said sullenly, "I see enough of the world with Sherlock."

Irene studied him for a moment before slowly and flatly telling him, "Well, good luck with that. But, if it helps"—John peeked at her as she talked in a now merry voice—"you should date an English professor or English major", she leaned against the table, "I dated an English professor when I was nineteen—during my last year in college—and that's when I started using lots of lovely names and words—like Monophysite, Iamblichus, Pomponazzi, bringing them out triumphantly and feeling that I've clinched arguments with the mere magical sound of them."

The kettle wailed, "Ah", Irene stood up, "the tea is done." The sun was just rising above the roofs of London when Irene handed John his tea. She sat down on the couch and keenly observed him taking a sip of his tea. "Is it good?" she asked, eager to please him.

"Oh, yes, quite", he said, placing the tea on the coffee table.

"I don't make tea often so I'm afraid that my tea making skills is"—she gazed down—"_limited _and poor."

John was about to refute her unwarranted self-abuse when the sound of the doorbell buzzed up the stairs. "Oh", he said, looking at the door and placing his hands on the chair to stand up, "I better get that."

"No, no", Irene stated, holding her hands out, shaking her head, and standing up, "Allow me." She smiled at him before she darted down the stairs and swung open the door to reveal three men in black. Irene's smile fell off her face and her eyes glossed with fear. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry, but her throat constricted as a panic attack screeched through her as one of the men clasped his gloved hand over her mouth. Irene bit down on her attacker's hand, as he dragged her out to a van, and was responded with a swift knock on the head.

John heard commotion downstairs, "Irene?" he called out; he felt a sickness begin in the pit of his stomach as he waited for her snarky reply back. He received none, only silence. He quickly stood up, grabbing and holding onto his cane hard enough that his knuckles turned white, and, as he was about to step outside onto the stair's landing, he saw a black outline before, promptly, receiving a blow to the head. Darkness overcame him.

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**By tomorrow, mostly likely, the next chapter will be finished and ready for posting (although, tomorrow, I'm visiting an art museum, so it won't be posted until tomorrow night.)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Three more chapters to go! (Oh, and by the way, Sherlock likes _Doctor Who_. And his favourite episode is _The Lodger _(but, of course!) Just thought I'd mention that.)**

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One week later...

Sherlock desperately searched for John and Irene. Lestrade and Scotland Yard was as well, but Sherlock tried to maintain distance from those "idiots". The police were being nice to him and was allowing him _far _more access than they'd ever had; they were caring, understanding, and _kind_. Sherlock, frankly, found it disgusting and almost snapped when Sally had called him 'Sherlock' instead of 'Freak'. _'If only one could always be so kind with so little expense or trouble'_, Sherlock found written on a notepad in John's neat, little cursive on the floor.Mycroft, Sherlock suspected, was also aiding in the search for John as well, but was in the background trying not to get in Sherlock's way.

When Sherlock had entered 221B the previous week, at around ten that morning after he had stopped the major burglary north of Westminster, he was eager and excited to share the glory with John. It was the only thing Sherlock could think to do to cheer up recovering friend. But, instead of finding a big lug in his chair watching the telly or on his laptop, Sherlock, however, came home to find the flat vacant and silent.

"Where's John?" There were no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate anything bad had happened, except the fact that there was no John. His eyes quickly scanned the flat and found a note on the coffee table written on Bohemian stationary and with an ink-pen.

_Love, JM._

Sherlock's face fell in horror as he quickly searched the flat for any sign of John. A cup of cold tea on the coffee table, the tea box out, and the kettle on the stove.

He looked in John's bedroom, he checked with Mrs. Hudson, but, alas, he found nothing. He called John and his mobile rang, muffled in the curvatures of the couch. Only three minutes had gone by since Sherlock had entered the flat, when he, at his wit's end, was compelled into calling Irene.

No answer. '_Why isn't she answering her damn phone?'_ He tried two more times before he gave up in frustration.

Sherlock inhaled to steady himself, and, suddenly, smelled Chanel No. 5.

"Stupid, stupid", he lowly berated to himself as his eyes flickered to Irene's handbag next to the door. He then decided to call Lestrade. "It's Moriarty", Sherlock muttered after Lestrade had cheerfully greeted him, "Moriarty has kidnapped John and Irene Adler."

An hour later and 221B was turned into a crime scene—again. Sherlock stood in the kitchen; barking orders to whomever would listen to him, the police buzzing around his flat, either avoiding his cold glares or giving him sympathetic, meek smiles. Lestrade had already dispatched half a dozen cops to various locations of interest to Moriarty.

What Lestrade found to be the most disturbing, after examining the note—although Sherlock had rolled his eyes when Lestrade told him that a second look might help—was that the handwriting on the note was _almost _identical to Sherlock's handwriting. "Even the way he signs his initials is identical to the way you sign yours, Sherlock", Lestrade muttered out, his eyes wide in amazement as he flipped the note over.

"Lestrade—go over to Irene Adler's flat and search there", Sherlock said severely as he picked up Irene's bag and dumped it on the coffee table.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade uneasily said as he flickered his eyes back and forth from the handbag to Sherlock, "I don't think it's appropriate"—

"John and Irene have been kidnapped", Sherlock angrily muttered to him, assessing her contents and eyeing Lestrade with impatience. _'Plane ticket to New York City, leaving two hours ago...makeup, black horn-rimmed glasses, Ray Ban sunglasses, small pack of tissues...nothing of real importance'..._ "This isn't time for damn appropriateness."

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in aggravation before suddenly walking out the door. He returned an hour later with a stack of newspapers. He plopped them on the coffee table and started going over newspapers, coldly stating to Lestrade, that Moriarty "communicates through the articles." Lestrade had offered to help him, but Sherlock callously snubbed his help.

Every morning, for the next week, a stack of newspaper was placed on the table and Sherlock carefully combed through the articles. On April 22—a week after the kidnapping and three weeks since the explosion at the pool—Sherlock went to Irene's flat to do a thorough search, although Lestrade and his staff had _insisted _that they didn't miss anything, to which Sherlock responded with a cynical and conceited grunt.

Sherlock took Irene's handbag back to her flat, where it seemed like it was frozen in time. Everything was left the way it was when the movers were told to stop and leave. Her couch was in the hallway, her bookshelf half empty, and her plants were in boxes, drooped in dryness. His eyes quickly scanned her flat for anything out of the ordinary.

He dumped out her handbag again on her coffee table and moved his hands over it to see if he didn't miss anything. Nothing. There was nothing a week ago and there was nothing now. Sherlock sighed and turned to leave, but, then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something black on a tucked in tissue. He pulled out the tissue out of the package and, it read, in black cursive,

_Watch Glee._

_-IA_

That was when Sherlock noticed that her copy of _Glee _was still on the coffee table, buried under the rubbish in her purse—yes—but still in the same spot, he had put it almost two weeks ago.

It looked like a regular DVD. The DVD had the title of the show stamped on it and there was even a book in it as well. He quickly grabbed, opened the DVD, and popping it into her DVD player all in one swift movement. It started like a regular DVD with some trailers, but, once those were over, it showed a blank wall, _'Her bedroom wall'_. It showed her wall for almost ten seconds before Irene came into the shot, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses.

"Oh, hello", she waved and said in a cheerful voice as she sat down and stared into the camera, "if you're watching this, Sherlock, then I have been kidnapped, killed, or"—she pushed up her glasses—"or I just wanna screw Moriarty over", she cleared her throat. "And I know you're watching this, Sherlock, because, frankly", she looked away and muttered, "John would be too stupid to find this and I have this horrible, gnawing feeling that John is _most _likely with me"—she looked back at the camera and said in an optimistic voice—"although I hope he isn't". She sighed and looked down, "Anyway", she looked back up, pointed, and said in a playful voice, "_You _probably want to know where we're at, eh?"

"Well—yes", Sherlock muttered in a cold and impatient voice as he rolled his eyes and thought about fast forwarding through this bit.

And, amazingly, Irene had paused to allow him to speak and then cordially smiled at him and continued when Sherlock stopped muttering and cursing and turned his attention back to her. She glanced at her watch and said, still looking at it, "As of April 12, 2010, one-o-seven PM"—her eyes flickered back to the camera—"the _most likely _place they would have taken us is this red brick, two-story house, twenty miles north of London", she then said in a disgusted voice, "Moriarty's so-called 'House of Horrors'". Sherlock stood up and turned to the door, "And, Sherlock!" Sherlock turned back to the telly, "The cover of the DVD case is the map!" Irene called out to him. Sherlock nodded at her in approval and astonishment, took out the DVD cover, and left.

Irene stared at the camera for a moment before speaking again, "You're most likely gone by this point, Sherlock, but I'm going to continue talking cos I can"; she cleared her throat. "I've only been there a few times and, on the outside, it's a very nice place. As I said before, red brick, two-story house, with some gnomes in the fount, potted flowers, and patio furniture. It looks like a family lives there! But, no, oh no", she said in a low, terrified voice, "the upper levels look normal—well, as normal as Moriarty and his damn thugs can get. The lower levels, the basement, is"...she trailed off, looking away from the camera, her voice cracking before she continued in a low, dangerous voice, "I can't imagine what goes on down there. Once I heard some muffled screams and once...I smelled cooking flesh." She turned to the camera and said, in a pleading voice, "I hope that by the time you watch this I'll be dead and that I didn't die like that or I never went through that", she gave a warm, lighthearted smile before waving, "Godspeed!"

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**I won't say that if you review I'll give you a sneak peek, cos I'm done with the story! I won't post the other chapters till tomorrow, but, that doesn't mean you shouldn't anyway... **


	7. Chapter 7

**Three more to go!**

**Reviews are as neat as kangaroos!**

**Note to self: Listening to The Jacksons after a lengthy loop of Othello and The Cold Song does _not _make up for the sorrowful and disturbing chapter.**

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When John woke up, his hands were tied behind his back with rough, coarse rope, he was sitting on a wooden chair, and the right side of his face hurt tremendously. Next to him was Irene, who was also tied up, her head was drooped and her hair was covering most of her face, but he assumed that she was unconscious. He moaned as he tried to move his bounded hands—to loosen the constraints—and to somewhat move his stiff, sore muscles.

They were in an empty, dark, damp room; the only light coming from a swinging lantern above them, and it was so cold that John could see his breath as he slowly inhaled and then exhaled to remain calm. "Oh, you're awake...finally", a cold, but playful voice came from the dark.

That voice. He knew that voice; he would never be able to forget that voice for as long as he lived, which, in his current situation, didn't seem for much longer, as the dark saw his petrified look and gave a good-humored chuckle. However, John couldn't place where it was coming from. The panic attack intensified as his eyes searched the floor around him for something that could protect him. Nothing. There was nothing.

The voice belonged to, of course, Moriarty.

Escape. He needed to escape, but he had no idea where to go, nor could he figure out how to get away. He felt himself sinking into a dark place, a place much darker than his surroundings.

"I was wondering when you were going to wake up from your"—Moriarty stepped from the shadows, his face scared and twisted from the explosion only two weeks ago—"nap", he said tenderly, but disdainfully.

_'Joker'_ the thought popped in John's mind for some odd reason and he tried to push it out of his thoughts. Moriarty grinned brightly at him, flashing his sharp white teeth—which seemed abnormally strange on his now disfigured face—as if he knew _exactly _what John was thinking. _'And if _he's_ the Joker, Sherlock is Batman, and then I am surely Robin...God, don't make me Jason Todd, please.'_

Irene stirred flippantly next to John and, when she saw Moriarty, she shouted out, "Holy hell! It's Moriarty!"

Moriarty gave her a charming smile, "Hello, my dear Irene", he walked towards her, studying her, "How are you?" he asked her in a sickly sweet voice.

"Ah, well", Irene shrugged and said in a composed voice, "Bit stiff...and my noses itches like _hell_, but, besides that"— she glanced up at Moriarty out of the corner of her eye and smiled teasingly at him—"I'm super duper."

He strolled around the two, like an animal stalking, his hands in his pants suit pockets, before he stood behind Irene. "Oh, dear sweet Irene", he murmured as he lightly brushed his finger against her cheek, "Dear Irene", she twitched away from his touch.

"Stop that!" John yelled angrily at him, noticing the disgust and dread in Irene's eyes. He tried to sound frightening, "Stop touching her! Or I'll...I'll"—'_Trying to sound intimidating and can't even come up with a threat?' _he thought to himself, a frown on his face.

Moriarty chuckled mockingly as he rubbed his fingers together, "Oh, the leading man is threatening me?" He threw his head back and laughed, "It would sound more menacing if it was actually coming from the handsome, brooding hero and not the"—he looked at John with a straight, serious face and said flatly—"_sidekick_."

"Hey! Quit messing with him", Irene snapped at him, her voice firm and motherly, as if she was telling her children to stop fighting.

"Oh", Moriarty placed his hands together, promptly pointed at Irene, and leaned closely to John, "even _she_ sounds more menacing than you are, Johnny boy", and he smirked at John and continued to stalk his prey.

"What do you want, Jim?" Irene growled angrily at him, rage burning in her eyes.

"To send a message", he said curtly and then continued cheerfully, "I return home from recuperation and find that a big job was broken up by _Sherlock Holmes_ and it was all because"—his voice changed into more of a snarl and looked at her—"_Irene Adler helped him_."

"I didn't help him", she told him, her voice light as she turned her head away from him, "I merely showed him a newspaper article that I found _very _interesting and he worked it from there", she looked at him, "it's not my fault he's clever and figured it out."

Moriarty gave her another sickly sweet smile, gazing at her for a moment, before turning his attentions to John, "Oh, Johnny boy"; he said in a singsong voice, "Have I told you the adventures that Irene and I have had"...he trailed off.

"No, Jim...no", Irene moaned out in apprehension.

"All the _jobs _she's done for me", Moriarty smirked and Irene's eyes flickered to John's, but he was looking away from her, his lips pursed in disappointment and shame. "She worked for me, you know."

"_Worked_", Irene, told him, matter-of-factly, "_Worked _being the key word."

"No matter", Moriarty said, a coy smirk on his face, as he moved towards the door, "I'm going to kill you anyways", the door opened, six men entered, and stood behind Moriarty, towering over him.

Irene's face fell in horror and John desperately tried to shift his hands behind his back to loosen the ropes as the six men stepped before them, their huge bodies blocking out the light. One of the men raised his fists and threw a punch at John, striking him across his face. Another man raised his hand and slapped Irene across her face, blood trickling down her cheek.

After Irene and John had received their beatings, and were on the ground, their hands still tied behind their backs, gasping for air, their faces distorted with bruises, cuts, and discolorations, Moriarty stood above them, a cocky smirk on his face and told her, coolly, "This didn't have to happen, dear sweet Irene."

Irene turned her head away from his eyes, still panting for breath, and closed her puffed eyes as tears spilled out. "Why don't you just kill us and get it over with?" John wheezed out, the blood and sweat pouring down his face, and he struggled to lift his head up to look at Moriarty.

"Oh no, no, Johnny boy", Moriarty said as he turned around and walked to the door, "Once I get bored, I'll kill Irene, but you...Johnny boy"—Moriarty turned around and looked John straight in the eye; his eyes cold and his face unreadable—"I'll keep you alive...but barely." The look in his eyes changed and he gave John a friendly smile before turning and leaving.

* * *

For the first two days of their imprisonment, John didn't speak to Irene. Hell!—he didn't even glance in her direction. Nevertheless, it's not as if she tried speaking to him either. She mostly kept her dull, lifeless eyes to her bloodied hands, occasionally running her hands through her greasy, blood knotted hair, and letting out bleak, tired sighs. Finally, on the third day after they had had their daily beaten, Irene spoke.

"This is our last chapter, isn't it?" she muttered, her usual animated and confident voice was dreary and weak; she looked up at John for confirmation, but he was avoiding her gaze in anger, embarrassment, pity, and because, deep down, he knew she was right. She continued in the same voice when he didn't respond, "'And in the last chapter things always happen violently'", she sighed and then went back to staring at her hands, "'Perhaps all life is like this'"—she shrugged listlessly—"'dull and then a heroic flurry at the end.'"

There was an odd silence everywhere, even in the other cells; it was as if the whole world had tactfully turned away to avoid seeing them die. "This isn't the good death I've always prayed for", she sighed out as she laid her head against the wall. After an hour of silence had gone by, she spoke again, "John?" curtly, but faintly. John unwillingly looked at Irene, a frown etched on her face, her eyes dead, and, what look like tears, streaked down her gaunt cheeks.

"Yes?" he finally said in a strained, exhausted voice. He had to talk to her and he had to acknowledge her, he told himself. _'I need to at least give her that much.'_

"I'm sorry", she looked at him, "All I was for Moriarty was a delivery girl", and she paused and then continued, "That card that I gave to Sherlock in the hospital was really from Moriarty—and I was the one that left Carl Powers' shoes in 221C and, if I had known that they were the lost shoes of a murdered kid, I wouldn't have done it." It was as if she was confessing to John, seeking his forgiveness before she died. It was the only important thing left to do; it was the most important thing as well, "'But, I have done what I have done and it seems, to me, that we can't stir a finger in this world without bringing death to someone.'"

Irene glanced at the cell door as she heard someone stop in fount of the door and the clinking of keys being pulled out a pocket and into the lock. She stood up, looking like a new born horse standing up for the first time and continued in a cool, but gloomy voice, "But, I hope that you don't remember me by that"—their guard entered the room and stepped in fount of Irene, wondering why she was standing up—"and remember me by this", she mumbled softly before she lunged forward and grabbed the guard's jacket. John's eyes widened in terror and shock as the guard promptly pushed Irene against the wall. She shrank and withered to the floor, her hand on the back of her head, before he gave a swift kick to her stomach. She went into the fetal position as she gasped for air and let out a gloomy whimper for mercy.

"Fucking bitch", the guard muttered as he dusted himself off and, as he turned his head to look at the security camera in the corner, he caught John's frightened eyes. John's eyes widened even more in terror—if that was even possible—when he noticed that the guard was looking at him. He gave John a delightfully evil smirk before unchaining him, brutally grabbing him by his elbow, and leading him out the door to the beating room. When John woke up, in their cell and chained to the wall after what he assumed to be an hour, Irene was still in the same position. John remained on his side for the next two hours, trying to think of ways to escape, but, alas, nothing came to mind.

He had forgiven Irene because, if they were both to die, he didn't want her dying without _some _clemency and he didn't want to die with guilt. Although, he thought as he exhausted his last escape plan, he couldn't think of any reason why she threw herself at their guard and what she had hope to accomplish. Moreover, as it was 'forbidden to spit on cats in plague-time', he had to forgive her; not forgiving her wouldn't achieve anything and it was just better to forgive and forget, even if it was, in their existing circumstances, only for some time. He fell asleep with a content smile on his face for the first time in a week.

Three hours later, John was woken up to be beaten again and was hastily thrown down on the floor of the cell as the guard roughly chained him back up after he was beaten for an hour. He glanced over to where Irene was—still huddled, her face hidden away, in a ball, her back to him. She didn't look like she was breathing and John furtively craned his neck in order to see her more properly. _´Oh God'_, he suddenly became very scared and his face dropped in horror and distress, _'I don't think she's moving…I don't see her breathing. Is…is she dead?'_

The guard finished chaining John down and, as he stood up and turned to leave, he noticed Irene in a huddled ball, "Oy", the guard snapped in a cruel, angry voice at her figure as he stepped in fount of her and roughly grabbed her shoulders to lift her up. Her head sluggishly rolled to the side, a vacant look on her face, and her eyes closed like she was deep in sleep, "What do you think you're do"—he suddenly stopped talking and his eyes widened in pain as Irene's eyes snapped open in alert and an impish smile slowly encompassed her face. The guard moaned softly before his eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground, a ballpoint pen sticking out of his stomach and blood slowly trickling out of his wound, forming a dull mirror.

Irene glanced and smirked, smugly, at a flabbergasted John; their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before she quickly bent down beside the now dead guard and searched his pockets. John saw determination, focus, ruthlessness, and intelligence in her lively deep brown eyes and knew, at that moment, that Irene Adler was back, and he very much doubted—as she pulled out the guard's keys—that she ever left in the first place. She swiftly appeared by John's side and immediately and quietly unlocked his chains, "Wh…what…what…" John attempted to say to Irene as she placed the chains aside, but it was very difficult for anything coherent to come out of his mouth as he was stunned and, of course, thirsty.

"Come on, John", she said coolly as she stood up, took out a phone, and rapidly started typing, "We got less than four minutes before they suspect something's amiss", she looked up from the phone, smiled kindly, and held out her free hand to John, "So we better get out of here."

"But, the cameras…" he drawled out hopelessly, however he still took Irene's hand and stood up, "They've got cameras _everywhere_."

Irene held up the phone, "Already taken care of", she said composedly, then her face took of look of attentiveness and she said in an urgent voice, "Now, _we have to go_."

They ran out the door, Irene leading the way with the phone in her hand and John's hand in her other. "What's that on the screen?" John asked as they made their way down a long passage, noticing two figures—obviously them—running alongside the wall in grayscale, with the date and time on the lower right corner.

"Security camera footage", she muttered softly and dully as they came to a stop at the end of the hall before turning right. "I hacked into the security cameras and"—they quickly pressed against the wall as a man casually strolled by. She continued talking when the man opened a door and went into another room. "And let loose a computer virus that I typed up"—they continued walking quickly—"that puts _their_ monitors on a ten minute loop so their monitors just keep playing the same ten minutes over and over again while _I _have the real, current footage", she looked back at him, a self-satisfied smirk on her face, "What do you think I've been doing for the last six hours?"

John rolled his eyes in annoyance, but was smiling in delight, happiness, and comfort, "Did you call for help?" John asked, hope in his voice.

She looked straight ahead, "No", she said in a flat voice after a short period of silence, "there's no phone reception all the way down here. We'd have to get up to the higher levels of the house to send for help", she told him as they started to climb the stairs that led upstairs. "Sh", Irene whispered as some low voices came from down the hall. They paused in fear as they thought the murmuring would stop or come their way, "This way", she pulled on John's hand after almost thirty seconds of uninterrupted murmuring.

As they came upon a corner, John suddenly dropped onto the dirty, wet floor, exhaustion and hurt fixed on his face, "John?" Irene wheezed in alarm, suddenly feeling a limp hand, as she turned her head around, "John!" Irene whispered fiercely at him, as she kneeled beside him and placed her hand under his head. "Wake up, John!" she shook him, "Wake up, John, god dammit…you get up!" her face strained as she fought to lift him up. "Ah."

John groaned in discomfort and winced in pain as Irene struggled to sling his right arm around her neck, "Come on, John", she gently murmured as she staggered forward, "One foot in fount of the other", she walked slowly, John's feet trailing behind and, as they rounded the corner, they bumped into someone. "Oh!" she gasped in dismay.


	8. Chapter 8

**Reviews, like bow ties and fezzes, are cool.**

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It was Sherlock.

They had bumped into Sherlock. "Sherlock?" Irene gasped in bliss and amazement as the consulting detective gazed down at her and then at the unconscious John, an upward curve on his mouth. "I don't think I've ever been so glad to see you", she tried to say in calm, cool voice.

"John?" His name escaped him on a low growl, as if his throat had tightened and he was strangling. Irene gently laid John down. Sherlock's eyes speedily scanned John's body and assessed his injuries. _'Beaten on a regular basis for the past week…food and water on a minimal level'…_And then he noticed that, all this time, Irene is violently whispering at him about "help".

"Where are they? Are they under your coat? Are they coming?" she asked him as he examined John, but when Sherlock looked up at her, she sighed and then said flatly, "Whatever"—she pointed to John—"get him and let's go." Sherlock picked up John, without much effort, as Irene began to feverishly type on the phone. "Okay, straight ahead", she said, preoccupied and looking at the phone, and she moved forward swiftly and against the wall. They continued in silence as they cautiously and hastily made their way down the corridor. "What door did you use?" she asked Sherlock as they rounded a corner.

"I used this door", Sherlock said composedly and nudged his jaw ahead as Irene abruptly stopped in her tracks and promptly pressed her back against the wall, but Sherlock continued walking coolly, John's feet dragging next to Sherlock's long, relaxed strides.

"Wait!" Irene hissed out as she roughly grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him next to her as he almost turned the corner, "I saw movement", and she pointed to the phone's screen, which showed just an empty hallway, with boxes stacked against the wall. "Lemme check", she muttered as she picked up a small block of rotting wood and threw it. Ten shots rang out through the hushed hallways as the wood was blown away to pieces. "Shit!" Irene uncomfortably whispered out as Sherlock's face took a look of alarm and concentration, "What do you say, Sherlock?" She looked at him, breathless. "Five or six guys?"

"Yes, most likely, five or six men", he said, trying to maintain his composure, and sat John down against the wall, "With semi automatics", he looked at the bullet holes in the wall and then at the bullet casings on the ground, "Browning 9mm Hi-Power semi automatics, by the looks of it."

"Okay"—she exhaled as an idea flashed in her head—"gimme your gun", Irene hurriedly demanded and held out her hand.

"Sorry—what?" Sherlock asked, slightly confused, not sure if he correctly heard her.

"Give me your gun", she repeated with a sharp and rushed tone and moved her open hand closer to Sherlock. Sherlock swiftly pulled out his gun from the pocket of his trench coat and handed it to Irene.

"What are you going to do?" he asked her with an uneasy voice as she pulled out the magazine to check how much bullets she had, although he _clearly _knew what stupid, idiotic thing she was about to do. _'Diversion.'_

Her face fell and she frowned in annoyance, "Really Sherlock? _Three _bullets? _Really_?" she muttered to him cynically, "Jesus Christ", she inched closer to the corner, "get back behind the corner"…she trailed off.

"I can't let you do this, Irene", Sherlock quietly and stoically said, although he had edged his way around the corner.

"Sherlock Holmes", she said slowly, gently, and solemnly as she checked the magazine again—to avoid catching his gaze—and stood straighter, "you're an endangered species. The only consulting detective in the world, as you vigorously and frequently point out. As melodramatic as it sounds, the world needs you. Me?" She lowly pointed to herself and flickered her eyes to Sherlock's; regret, grief, and affection in her eyes, "There are dozens—hundreds of playgirls out there. One less isn't going to do any harm", she then muttered darkly under her breath, "Frankly, it'd do the world a lot of good, actually."

Even though, her face was bruised and cut from the beatings she had had from the last week, her cheeks and eyes sunken and gray from the lack of proper food, water, and setting, and her hair was matted down with blood, Sherlock still found her to be strangely beautiful, like he found corpses to be. He felt like someone who has missed happiness by seconds at an appointed place as he watched Irene close her eyes and exhale as a quick prayer.

She cocked the gun and edged her way closer to the corner, "Besides"—she looked at Sherlock, her staple mischievousness and amusement in her eyes, her smirk plastered on her face, and her voice flirtatious and playful—"this should be fun", and, with that, she stepped out from behind the corner, the gun pointed out, and said, in a cold, but coy voice, "Hello boys", before coolly shooting the gun, three times. She hastily threw the gun on the ground and ran down the corridor, away from Sherlock and John, as two men chased after her, yelling vulgarities.

Sherlock followed them with his eyes and waited until they were well down the corridor before he heaved John around the corner and to the door. Irene had shot the three other men, two of them in their heads and the other in his neck. Their eyes were opened, but their hearts had stopped beating, their faces frozen in pain, shock, and confusion; their blood was seeping out and forming a medium sized red mirror on the floor. Sherlock kicked open the door…


	9. Chapter 9

**Second to last chapter! Pew, pew, pew!**

**Reviews would be awesome!**

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Sherlock kicked open the door and tottered out into the cool, sweet-smelling, dark night, dragging his unconscious best friend and flatmate; a slight gnawing, worried sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach. "C'mon, John", he harshly muttered to John, although he didn't mean for it to come out harshly, "I can't do this without you", and Sherlock, himself, didn't know if he meant at that moment—that they wouldn't be able to get away from Moriarty's damn goons if John didn't start walking or, at least, moving his legs—or that he wouldn't be able to function properly without John.

Sherlock started panting in exhaustion, leaving Moriarty's House of Horrors behind him, and he heard the wails of the police sirens and saw the bright red and blue lights coming over the horizon towards him and John. "Oh, thank god", Sherlock sighed out in relief as he stopped to gently lay John down on the soft, grass, and sat beside him, both of them giving an odd effect of being children, lost in a strange town, without adult care.

John was immediately taken to the hospital and, although he would have liked to have gone with him, Sherlock had to stay there to survey and inspect the scene. In addition, to see if Irene made it out alive, he supposed as a paramedic placed an orange blanket around him. "This again?" Sherlock unkindly asked Lestrade, as Lestrade slowly walked up to him.

"For the press", Lestrade said leisurely and shrugged, "This is big news, y'know", Lestrade placed his hands in his pants pockets, "Moriarty's 'House of Horrors'."

Sherlock shook his head in aggravation, but kept the shock blanket on nevertheless, "Have you found Irene Adler yet?"

Lestrade avoided Sherlock's intense gaze, "We found ten people dead in there...one with a pen in his stomach, seven shot, and two from neglect—and we arrested three", Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, "We have _not _found Irene Adler", Sherlock blinked and, so, Lestrade continued, "Nor have we found Moriarty."

Sherlock sighed in disapproval as a black body bag passed by.


	10. Chapter 10

**Last chapter! What started as one-shot, grew into ten chapters, thanks to some persuasion.**

**I don't have a speech or anything to give to share my appreciation, but, just, act like I did and it was something that Lincoln or Churchill would be proud of.**

**Oh! One more thing before you read! I have _some _ideas for a sequel—and I _will_ type it up—but, if you want, I'll post it as well if I get some approvals. Actually, one will do. I don't need a whole bunch. I'll do it for one.**

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Two weeks speedily went by and, by that time, John was out of the hospital and recovering with a schedule of telly, tea, and slumber. A total of thirty-six people were found dead in "Moriarty's House of Horrors", as the press had been calling it; the other twenty-six were found buried, burned, or in barrels. Moriarty had, as Lestrade told Sherlock before, not been found, although there was a _massive _manhunt, which still yielded no reliable results.

As John fell asleep in his chair, a wool blanket around him, the telly lightly on in the background, a steaming cup of tea next to him, and the afternoon sun peering through the windows, Sherlock took out his mobile from his jacket pocket.

_"Can I trust you?"_

_-SH_

He got a reply less than a minute later. He smirked contentedly as he read it,

_"If you like."_

_-IA_

His phone beeped again five seconds later with another reply,

_"But, where's the fun is that?"_

_-IA_

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**The title _came _from _Doctor Who _and, therefore, it had to _end _with some as well.**

**Hey! If you review, I'll tell what happened to Irene...and I don't think I'll give you the outline, compressed version of it. I think I'll actually _write _it out. (Note: from the moment where she threw down the gun to the text above.)**


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